Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  This is what happens when a man with terrible fashion judgment is the decider. I wear business casual I buy off clearance racks. My accessories are made with cubic zirconia or cheap semiprecious stones. The whole point of my wardrobe is to be functional and attractive on a budget.

  So in the midst of working over a hundred hours a week, I also need to help Emmett pick out gifts.

  The next two months can’t go fast enough.

  –Me: What’s the occasion?

  –Emmett: No occasion. Just something I’m thinking about.

  I give my phone the side-eye. My boss isn’t the type to do things just because. He believes in efficiency and proficiency. He probably just doesn’t want to tell me what it’s about. For all I know, it could be an I’m-sorry-I-messed-up grovel gift.

  Or maybe he’s doing this to annoy me enough to make me quit my job now, so he can claw back some of my signing bonus. Who knows what floats around in his diabolical mind?

  –Me: Diamonds.

  Three… Two… One…

  –Emmett: Why?

  Argh! The inevitable question! It’s like death and taxes. Like Thanos.

  I should’ve picked the damned pearls. But I can’t take it back now. The one time I tried, he asked me so many questions I felt the need to create a PowerPoint presentation.

  –Me: They look more expensive. They’ll mean more.

  The redhead seemed like a diamond kind of woman.

  –Emmett: Seems like a thoughtless reason.

  Shallow, too, I add silently.

  –Me: Cheap things are cheap for a reason.

  –Emmett: Pretend you’re spending your own money.

  Oh for God’s sake. I wouldn’t be spending my own hard-earned dollars on those things. I’d be making an extra payment on my student loan. Or saving it for a down payment on Dad’s future house in Florida.

  But I can’t tell my boss I’d rather spend the money on unromantic practicality. Plus, his dates probably aren’t mired in debt.

  –Me: The diamonds. They sparkle more.

  –Emmett: So sparkly wins?

  –Me: Yes.

  Can I go now? I add silently.

  –Emmett: Thanks. :)

  Jesus, look at that smiley face. It’s more destructive than a hydrogen bomb.

  Articles on bosses from hell always mention the ones who constantly berate you and never thank you. The authors of those articles clearly have never met Emmett Lasker. He flings his smiling “thanks” around like preemptive strike grenades. And it’s diabolical. There’s no way to complain about his behavior after a seemingly friendly “thanks.”

  He is a bosshole for the twenty-first century. None of that classic pathological shouting stuff. There are too many people with cell phones recording your every move, eager to post your bad behavior on social media for public shaming. A modern bosshole can fake being a decent human while making your life miserable at the same time.

  And it’s the worst. You can’t file a complaint with HR for abusive behavior or language. If he tells you at four thirty p.m. you have to redo all your work because he isn’t happy—never mind that his reason for dissatisfaction with your deliverable makes zero sense—then it’s you who must’ve failed to measure up, not him. If he calls you at eight thirty in the evening while you’re on a date, asking you to come in because he decided he doesn’t like some variable you used in your latest financial projections, that, too, is a sign of your failing.

  I drop my phone into my purse. The elevator stops on my floor, and the doors open like the maw of a monster starved for innocent souls.

  Taking a deep breath, I march forward to my desk. First one in the office today. As I boot up my laptop, my gaze falls on the standing desktop calendar. Five red circles around today’s date. With a big star above, a reminder of my all-important lunch meeting with Marion Blaire from the Blaire Group.

  My heart does a funky little dance as excitement shivers through me. The Blaire Group is a well-regarded private equity firm in Arlington, Virginia. A month ago, I gave my résumé to a few headhunters I know, asking them to be discreet—which they promised to do, since they know it wouldn’t be good for me if my boss found out I was looking for a new position. Within a week, the Blaire Group contacted me for a Zoom interview. Afterward, they wanted to fly me out to Virginia for the in-person stuff.

  I wish I could take the time off, but Emmett would never approve it, not on such short notice. I could always take a sick day, but last month a guy from another venture capital firm called in sick and got caught at the airport because somebody took a selfie and posted it on Instagram, and a coworker from his firm recognized him. He was summarily fired and became the topic of tittering gossip.

  So, one of the Blaire Group’s junior partners is going to interview me during his business trip to L.A. this week. He said he could swing a lunch interview after his final meeting.

  I have high hopes. The hours are generally better in private equity, and I’m going to get a higher salary if I’m offered a position.

  A step closer to paying off my student loan and buying Dad his dream home. Sweet!

  Another text comes in. I check immediately; something from the Blaire Group about the interview? But it’s Rick, who’s up early this morning. Normally he sleeps in until nine.

  –Rick: Hey, babe, you ready?

  –Me: I just got to work. Ready for what?

  –Rick: For our six-month anniversary trip!

  A bomb seems to go off in my mind.

  –Me: What are you talking about?

  –Rick: I told you to mark your calendar! And put a heart over it.

  I think back for a second, then realize he’s right. He asked me to do it last month. So I put a circle around the date on the wall calendar in my apartment. No heart, though. That would’ve been sort of embarrassing and a little dishonest—I don’t quite feel like Rick’s worth a heart…yet.

  But what does that have to do this outlandish trip thing?

  –Me: You never said anything about a trip! You know I hate surprises.

  I made that clear when we started dating. I was a week out of breaking up with my previous boyfriend, and told Rick specifically that I didn’t like unpredictability or my plans getting derailed. It was something we both agreed on.

  –Rick: I did tell you! I told you to look at my Pulse feed!

  I start to get a sinking feeling. He did that, too…but never told me why. So I didn’t bother, since I don’t have time to look at funny videos or memes. I have so much crap on my plate right now.

  –Me: You put our trip on social media and didn’t tell me directly?

  I just stare at my phone, speechless. Who shares plans like this? He knows I don’t have time to check my Pulse account! I only opened it because he insisted that I join “civil society” and get connected to the “people of the world.” He doesn’t understand that unless being connected to all of humanity is going to get me an extra half an hour of sleep per night, I’m not interested.

  –Rick: I wanted to do something creative. And I wanted everyone to know how special you are. My God, Amy, the post with the plan got over three thousand likes!

  As if that matters!

  Part of me wants to tell him there’s no way I can go. I’m annoyed he did it the way he did. But another part of me whispers at least he’s trying to be the kind of boyfriend who remembers important dates. I just wish they didn’t include a six-month anniversary. Who celebrates half a year?

  –Rick: I guess people liked the idea of a fun weekend getaway in a cabin in Tahoe. I filled my tank and got everything we’ll need for hiking and campfire cooking.

  Hiking? Campfire cooking? Those sound like chores, especially when we’ll have to spend over twenty hours driving back and forth between L.A. and Lake Tahoe. We talked about what we liked to do for relaxation once, and I told him anything that doesn’t require me to be active. He should’ve known then that hiking is not my idea of fun.

  If he’d asked abou
t the trip before he booked it and announced it via Pulse, I would’ve suggested a weekend package at a hotel with a view of the ocean not too far from L.A. One that included couples massages and room service.

  His poor planning and communication are irritating the crap out of me. Not even Emmett has pulled something like this.

  –Rick: All you have to do is show up in front of your office building by six today.

  –Me: What do you mean? I have nothing to wear for the next two days in the office. I have to pack first.

  –Rick: Then just go home and grab a few things. I can pick you up at your place. No biggie.

  I prop my elbow on the desk and rest my forehead in my palm. Why hasn’t it penetrated his skull that he can’t just drop something like this on me without notice? Although I was hopeful Emmett might let me go home at a somewhat decent hour, now I’m pessimistic. He has a finely tuned radar that just knows when I have social plans. And his default response is to nuke my evening.

  –Me: I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. My boss can dump stuff on me at any time. You know how he is.

  –Rick: It’s Friday! And not just any Friday, but a special one. Our six-month anniversary means something.

  Over a billion emojis follow. They don’t add to his argument and make me want to fire back an equal number of angry ones.

  –Me: Do people really celebrate six-month anniversaries?

  –Rick: Hell yeah! It’s the thing these days.

  My gut says that’s doubtful. But what do I know about stuff like that? I barely have the time to breathe, much less keep track of the latest dating trends.

  –Me: Okay. I’m going to try, the operative word here being TRY, to do this trip. But no guarantees.

  –Rick: Awesome! Everyone’s gonna be soooo jealous when we post about the trip!

  More annoyingly bouncy and happy emojis fill my screen. I shake my head at how ahead of himself he’s getting. He’s a premature emojinator. He seems to have a certain vision about our relationship and its milestones. I’m beginning to see more and more clearly that our visions don’t align as well as he believes. Posting about what I’m up to and making everyone insanely jealous has never been on my priority list.

  Still. I said I’d try, so that’s what I’m going to do. One silver lining: I can probably sleep in the car while he drives to Tahoe.

  To make sure I don’t forget about this impromptu trip, I write 6MAT next to the star on the calendar. Six-month anniversary trip.

  Okay, work. I open the Excel file Emmett wants. I better make it good because I don’t want to stay in the office late again. Or hear Rick’s whining because he’ll pout if I have to work late today. Right now, my tolerance for any kind of bullshit is so low that even the slightest provocation will push me over the edge.

  Cracking my knuckles, I hunch over my laptop to slay another day.

  Chapter Two

  Amy

  “Working hard?”

  I start, then look up from my laptop to see Emmett standing above me. I check the time on the monitor. Only ten minutes since I pulled up the file.

  He’s carrying a fresh mug of coffee and his sleeves are rolled up, which means I wasn’t the first to get here. He always rolls them up when he arrives in the office, showing off lean, muscled forearms that never fail to make me salivate.

  Then there are his gorgeous eyes. They always seem to burn with hunger when he looks at me. Any other man, and I’d say he was attracted. But with Emmett, I know better. What he’s really hungering for is another opportunity to torment me.

  Yet…

  Despite the fact that we’ve been working together for a year and ten months, my heart still does those funny gymnastics—tumble, roll and twist. It never did that before I met him, and it’s increased over the last twenty-two months because even my belly feels weird these days, all fluttery in response to what my heart is doing. Hot shivers run through me at the most inopportune times, like when I should be focusing in meetings or paying attention to what my boyfriend’s saying during the few dates we can manage.

  The only thing that makes my inopportune attraction to my boss bearable is that I also feel a furious need to slap him ninety percent of the time, especially when that murmured “I’m probably going to regret this…” pops into my head. Or when he wrecks another of my evenings or weekends with his casual sadism.

  I actually thought I was at the wrong address when I came in for the final interview. It was like I’d walked into a modeling agency by accident and somehow come face to face with their top model.

  At six-four, Emmett Lasker towers over most people, his shoulders impossibly wide, his hips narrow and tight. Dark, slanted eyebrows cut decisive lines above his deep-set eyes that are such a light blue they appear almost silver. His facial features are masculine and finely balanced, as though chiseled by a master sculptor. A straight blade of a nose, not too long, not too short, just perfect. High forehead and square jaw with a hint of dark stubble. The only thing soft on his face is his mouth, which is surprisingly full. One corner lifts up frequently, as though he’s sardonically amused at the world.

  And maybe he is. He’s one of those rare prodigies of finance with the Midas touch. He sees things that most of us mortals can’t.

  Working at GrantEm is basically the absolute best ice-cream sundae available in the world of finance. Working directly with Emmett Lasker himself? The cherry on top.

  It’s too bad I’m not feeling any of the smugness or satisfaction that people must get when they work for a genius. The hot, uncomfortable knot in my belly? That’s forty percent lust over his gorgeous self, forty percent dread over what he’s going to do to ruin my day and twenty percent self-recrimination over the fact that I still think he’s an exceptionally fine specimen of masculinity. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s my boss…if we’d met under any other circumstances…I might’ve gone for a one-night stand, something I’d normally never even consider. But when you run into a guy who heats your blood just by breathing, why the hell not?

  However, he is my boss. And not just any boss, but a boss who’s driven to make my life hell. Who’s hired me against his better judgment (I’m still not sure why he did that), and who’s apparently determined to show me that I don’t belong, no matter how well I perform at the firm.

  But how can he look so fresh and hot this early in the morning? He seems to glow from within. The man didn’t leave the office until after I did last night. And he got here before I did this morning. How is it possible that he can look like a million bucks when I feel a need to IV three or four quarts of espresso?

  He raises an eyebrow expectantly.

  Does he want the Excel file now? He told me he needed it by two, and I’m not giving it to him until later. I’m entitled to the hours allotted for this task!

  Then I remember he said, “Working hard?”

  I give him my best professional smile. “Yes. You said you wanted it by two.” I gesture at the Excel spreadsheet on my monitor.

  “That I did.” He glances at my calendar, and his mouth flattens a bit.

  Shit. I don’t want him to think the circles, star and 6MAT over today’s date mean something personal. If he does, he’ll find a way to ruin it. Maybe toss in an “extremely urgent” task I’ll need to work through lunch to get done.

  I’m not canceling my interview with the Blaire Group. “I even marked it on my calendar, so I wouldn’t forget.”

  “Mmm.” His eyes narrow slightly.

  Crap. Does he know what the circles and star really mean? I don’t think he’d fire me for interviewing, but I don’t want to give him another reason to dedicate his life to making me miserable. I don’t know how much more he can do at this point, but I’m sure he’ll think of something. There’s a reason he’s the founding partner of a venture capital firm at his age. And it isn’t his daddy’s money.

  “I’m wondering what that ‘6MAT’ stands for.” Emmett gives me a smile.

  His ca
sual tone doesn’t fool me. I make sure to keep my face pleasant and innocent. “It’s my personal code to indicate urgency, 6MAT being the most important. The work I’m doing for you is obviously my top priority.”

  “Yes, but what does it stand for?”

  “Uh, you mean the letters? Themselves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, it’s simple. Most Absolute Top. And I have six numerical levels of priority, six being the highest.” I smile again.

  He raises both eyebrows, then nods slowly. “I see. It is important to mark one’s priorities.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Keep up the good work,” he says, although his tone indicates he’s going to pick apart my deliverable until he finds something to complain about. Then he goes into his office.

  Once the door closes behind him, I let out a soft breath. Whew. Safe. And I think my laying it on so thick like that stroked his ego. Damn, I’m good. I don’t care if he gives me crap about my Excel model, because Emmett wouldn’t be Emmett if he didn’t.

  Of course, once I get a new position and move on after eight weeks, this kind of passive-aggressive abuse will be over. Ah, the sweet smell of freedom. It’s so close!

  As the morning matures, GrantEm starts to bustle with more people. A first-year associate, Webber, goes into Emmett’s office with a folder. Twenty minutes later he comes out, his shoulders rounded and the skin around his eyes red. He’s an impressive guy—two years at Morgan Stanley before getting his MBA from Stanford. But no match for the bosshole. Emmett must’ve eviscerated him in there, all without raising his voice. He knows exactly how to stick a knife in and twist, even as he smiles like some demon angel.